


Perfectly Imperfect

by ShadowHaloedAngel



Series: Tenshi [1]
Category: Jrock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-14
Updated: 2012-08-14
Packaged: 2017-11-12 03:26:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/486140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShadowHaloedAngel/pseuds/ShadowHaloedAngel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A day in the life of a broken angel</p>
            </blockquote>





	Perfectly Imperfect

The man moved with something less than his customary easy grace. It had been a long day, and the bone deep weariness which was so much more than physical was slowing the elegance of his motion. Of course, such a change was obvious only to those who knew him, and there were none of those around. That was part of the reason for the exhaustion. 

He paused, the moment the door was closed behind him, and leant against the wall. It was reassuringly solid, something which felt almost strange after the ephemera which everything else consisted of. He was tired of it all, so tired, and yet there was no way to leave it behind. He wasn't stupid enough to believe that he could carry on without the music... it was all that was left. Not his father, not his lover... nothing. 

He sighed, the sound soft, like a leaf falling to the ground in the depths of winter, and shrugged the coat from his shoulders, hanging it neatly on the hook. The hook itself was a concession to ornamentation in the bleakness - it had been a present. Though he preferred things which were functional, having lost his passion for flair along with... along with so much more all those years ago, it had been a gift from a fan, and he hadn't the heart to turn it away. It was rough metal, carefully shaped, unvarnished, in the shape of a treble clef. It was honest. There had been no attempt to dress it up, to make any pretence or grand gesture. The accompaniment had been a hand-written note - one page of black scrawl.

"I know you must get hundreds, if not thousands of letters like this, so I'm not going to pretend that mine is anything special. I just wanted to thank you for everything you've done for me - someone you've never met, and never will. The fact remains that without your music, I wouldn't still be here. Words will never be enough, though, so I made this for you. You can throw it out, or whatever but I put what I could into this. It's worthless compared to so much else, I know, but it comes from the heart. You gave me hope. I wanted to give something back." 

There had been no signature.

He paused for a moment, and traced the tip of his index finger around the curvature of the design, the pitted honesty. He hadn't been able to throw something like that away. It was imperfect. Just like him.

The day had begun as every day did, with the harsh sound of the alarm which shattered his reverie. He hated that alarm - it cost him so many of the symphonies which wrote themselves in his dreams, leaving the fragile melodies in tatters, with only fragments of heartbroken chords sounding in his head over and over. It was necessary, though, when he was working like this. He missed the days of his exclusion, though, his escape. He missed the freedom isolation had granted... but in the end, the siren call of the music had brought him back. It always had, and it always would, until the day when even the music wasn't strong enough. Until the day when the melody died. Today, though, had been an endless procession of bright lights and demand after demand - from producers, from fans, from his clients, from photographers... this was his refuge. All he had left to him. There had been a time when a refuge was a person, not a place... but those days were long gone, along with all hope of their return.

He had dressed and headed out, attending the crack-of-dawn interview which had been scheduled for weeks. He couldn't deny them the answers, but it was hardly the best start to a day, to be so interrogated, by a terrier who would not release even the barest hint of bone. When the questions became too much, too deep, too personal, he ducked his head and flashed a smile, pulling out the bashful persona which he knew melted hearts, which protected him from everything but his own pain. Usually it worked, but this time... this time it had not been quite enough.

When he had finally escaped from those lights, from the unforgiving glare of the television lens, he had retreated to the studio for a few hours, but there had been no respite there. Dir en Grey had been practising, and Kaoru had called him in to listen to a new song they were working on, asking him for his opinion. Somehow - and he wasn't sure how - he had been persuaded onto the drumkit because Kaoru could /hear/ exactly what he wanted, but couldn't communicate it. Yoshiki could sympathise with that frustration, and so he had agreed to help. Somehow he had never reached his own aim, and had instead been talked into going for lunch with the band.

From there he had gone straight on to the publicity shoot. More cameras, more demands, more exposure. It had barely started before he wanted to retreat once more, to withdraw completely... but he could no longer submit to those urges. Once had been enough. If he tried it again... he would never be forgiven.

And so he had carried on, he had made it through the day, he had smiled, and laughed and done everything asked of him. He had given himself away, again. It was somehow easy to do that, but he got nothing back for it these days. It had been different when he had given himself away before, to someone who would treasure the gift, who would protect it. A small, bitter smile. he always had given himself away too easily to those around him, far too willing to sacrifice everything to bring them happiness. It had left him spent now, exhausted, thin and empty.

From somewhere he found the strength to move, or perhaps it was only that he no longer had the energy to remain standing still. He stripped off, hanging the clothes over the back of a chair and making his way to the bathroom, stnading under the steaming, pounding spray, leaning against the wall and letting it wash away everything that weighed him down, everything which was not part of him. Everything, of course, except for that pain which was so fundamental it was ingrained in his very soul.

Eventually the water ran cold over him, shocking him somehow from his shadowed thoughts. He turned off the spray, and stepped out, ignoring the trail of crystalline drops on the floor, and retreating to the closest to an embrace he could hope for - the rough caress of a towelling robe which surrounded him, protected him, left him slightly less vulnerable than he had been for that time beneath the pumelling, punishing cascade.

A quiet evening, then. Simple food, a glass of wine, and peaceful silence, alone with his memories. A tired soul, a fallen angel... perfect imperfection.


End file.
